Transatlantic adventure

All’s well that ends swell

Leo Kenny looks back on an eventful Atlantic crossing from Las Palmas to Barbados and beyond

Iknew I was cutting it fine when I signed up for the delivery trip of a Lagoon 45 from the Grande Canarias to the Caribbean; I was hoping to make the 2500 Nm journey starting in mid-November and be back in Stockholm for Xmas.

It seemed feasible. Although the initial leg would need to be southwest towards Cape Verde, the usually reliable November east Trade Wind should provide a comfortable following wind and sea for the rest of the crossing and get me to Barbados in time to catch a flight home for

Xmas. The hurricane season had ended; what could go wrong? Albeit we were in the times of COVID, this was not like Love in the Time of

Cholera and I trusted the skipper’s boat preparation. It was up to me to get a PCR test for COVID before we departed Las Palmas. But what use was a test if the standard requirement on landing is that it should not be more than 72 hours old? That is hard to satisfy when you are four weeks at sea. This would prove to be problematic!

Haiku for my family

Under a waxing moon on a gentle sea on the first night out, COVID 19 could not have been further from my thoughts. There were many more baffling things about crossing the great expanse of the Atlantic which were troubling me. The paramount question was why was I doing this? I felt compelled to share my musings with my wife and kids – but how, given the 20-character limit of the IsatPhone 2? Then I had a brilliant idea! Haiku!

“Everything becomes a Zen ritual out here; the disposal of loo paper for example,” I texted, using both thumbs. That didn’t sound very Haikuish!

Having found it impossible to write a haiku in 20 characters – especially about such personal hygiene - I decided to concentrate on essential thoughts. They were easier to text - especially by the time we were nearing the Caribbean and the most existential questions were already answered.

Staring at the sea: why does it feel so good that there are no other ships; so many people on the globe and yet only us and the flying fish visible here? Why do I feel more for the flying fish dead on the deck, than I did for the tuna and Mahi Mahi when I killed them on the same deck? Why are the dolphins bigger and less friendly mid Atlantic than the ones closer to Barbados and Grand Canaria where they came and scratched their backs on the hull and turned sideways to flash you a knowing smile? How long did it take for the Sargasso weed from the Gulf Stream to reach us mid-Atlantic and stop us fishing? Why did I not hesitate to put the flying fish that landed in my cabin, on the hook? How did I know it would catch the biggest Mahi Mahi of the voyage?

A fair following wind

Sitting up on the high bridge of the Lagoon 45 was comfortable even in the 35 knot winds we had for several days and nights. Thankfully they were following winds with a following swell – kind enough, but at

times swells reaching 5-6 meters. The cat loved it and glided down the angry faces of waves as if to say, “What more have you got for me Atlantic?” The auto pilot complained a lot of course; it was right behind my head in my aft cabin, and we often exchanged moans with each other at night. We had a spinnaker up for the first week, hardly touching it day or night, (mainly because the sock is broken at the top and it was too hard to get down). When the wind dropped and it started misbehaving, we wrestled and cajoled it down.

The fishing was superb for two weeks out of Las Palmas; some days we pulled in two and (once) three Mahi Mahi over 3 Kg, and the odd Blue-fin tuna. When the freezer was chokka block, we stopped fishing, but not before the Sargasso weed told us to stop. Fish was our staple - well, fish and the fresh bread Tomaz and I took turns to make each day. (Something about the smell of fresh bread; especially in the middle of the Atlantic. The yeasty smell is familiar and not at odds with ocean breezes.) The carpaccio and ceviche were devoured by hungry crew including the beautiful kids with us – Tomas and Dasa’s permanent crew: little Marc, two years old, who has more miles at sea than I; and his sisters, Luna 11 and Eva, nine, more than any sailors I know. When I first met them in Las Palmas, Marc proudly showed me how he can handle the dinghy outboard - much to the chagrin of Luna and Eva who wanted to (and can) do the same, in between swimming like mermaids and doing their home schooling with Dasa on a rolling deck. Marc doesn’t have toys; he plays with toolboxes. His favorite item is a battery powered drill which he delights in holding to your backside and turning on. The kids were such a bonus on this crossing. They are old hands having done it several times before. This was a delivery trip from Greece to the Caribbean where Tomas and Dasa work their boat as Kiteboard Cruises in the European winter and then return to the Aegean to do the same in the Mediterranean summer.

Moments of reflection

But sitting on the bridge during watches in the middle of the night, and especially when the kind old moon was trying to make you welcome, in between moments when you think that you belong in the middle of the Atlantic, the questions keep coming: why was it not disconcerting not to see another boat for two and a half weeks? Why did that French boat, K Helios, (hope he reads this magazine), cross 200 meters in front of us in the middle of the Atlantic when we had not seen another boat for over two weeks? We had been following him on AIS for a couple of days. It was one night before the full moon after he gave me his course and speed on VHF - us both flying spinnakers in the middle of the night. Was he lonely too? Did he get flying fish in his cabin too? What was he eating for dinner? Was he sweating like me? How did the hot nights creep up on us without us noticing? Is the ghost of the Mahi Mahis still with us? Is Pelle, our Swedish photographer’s drone that he crashed into my arm and cut me through my long sleeve T shirt with

ABOVE (L-R)

A fishing frenzy mid-Atlantic

BELOW (L_R)

Enjoying the cool of the evening as we approach the Caribbean

its sharp rotors, still trying to transmit home from 5000 meters deep where it ended up after my valiant capture grab failed, or has the Gulf Stream taken it, clutching its remains in its perpetual currents?”

And the most perplexing question of all: “Why is it so important that you love me in these times of COVID?”

It was a bit intimidating having such limited connection with the outside world mid Atlantic. We used the Iridium for weather updates and my Satphone 2 for family texting. And yet, all these questions were probably best answered in haiku or Satphone text anyway. All is futile in comparison with this Atlantic expanse with its unpredictable moods witnessed under a nearly a month of the moon phases. The moon, the moon! Some nights it screamed at me, “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

First land for weeks

Seeing Barbados, first land for three and a half weeks, was not as thrilling as I thought. There was no smell of the land because the trade wind was still behind us. The shores crept up on us as friendly dolphins escorted us along the coast. The beaches were deserted and the harbor hot and empty. Covid landing quarantine was prohibitive so we only stayed half an hour to talk to immigration. They didn’t look like they played cricket; or maybe they didn’t like Australians! Now here in Grenada quarantine for five days, the warm Caribbean wind lulling me to sleep with a bottle of fine Barbados rum at my side, everything seems less complex. The first Covid test and quarantine was what it was. I will not elaborate on that frustrating time when Dr Charles, the Chief Medical Officer, told us on the first day that, since we did not have a negative PCR test not older than 72 hours from the Canaries, he was ordering the Coast Guard to escort us out of their waters. We quarantined off a beautiful beach and ordered pizzas and rum each day until they agreed to test us. It was fully eight days before Dr Charles radioed to say they had teo results and that with the weeks at sea it was safe to assume we were all negative. He allowed those of us flying out, to go ashore. I booked the only remaining flight before Xmas to Stockholm via Barbados and Frankfurt with the knowledge that I would not have a written coy of my PCR because that was only available by personal presentation at the hospital on a weekday. This was Sunday and my flight was 06:00 the next day.

Sitting at the airport, I wrote in my logbook: “Now, 6000 km, three and a half weeks from Gran Canaria, two tuna and about 25 Mahi Mahi and five toilet rolls later, I am looking forward to Xmas with my wife and kids and Jack my dog. I am sad my little girl Emma can’t come home from Boston. I want to ask them all more questions, not about the Atlantic, but about Trump and Covid and Rudi Giuliani’s chances of being forgiven for being in the Borat movie.

The gentle easterly trade wind has blown us here. The 30-40 knot tail wind we had for a couple of nights and days was not scary - not like the 35-knot head wind we had from Rome to Sardinia in 2016 when we were all nearly lost at sea because I

ABOVE

(left) a perfect spot to view the sunset on the sponson; (right) dolphins get a massage

BELOW

(left) Tara oversees hamburger making by Leo; (right) somewhere over the rainbow

read the weather wrong. We did not fly our gennaker that night in the Mediterranean. And yet we had our spinnaker up often this Atlantic crossing.

I liked the Lagoon 44 although it does not sail up wind like my beautiful blue Jeanneau Sun Odyssey 45-foot Deck Saloon, Pura Vida. On this boat, Boogie Woogie, the rum stayed put on the chart table even in 35-40 knots; until we drank it – but only one shot after a watch!).

Aftermath

Pelle is off to Gothenburg to his darling family. He captured wonderful images being the professional photographer he is and had already demonstrated in his books on our voyages with Pura Vida 2016-2018. With his permission, the drone photos appear in this article. On demand you can get your own private video of the drone crashing into my arm, then into the 5000 meters deep mid Atlantic where it rests in peace and pieces. Luna captured that on iPhone, including the expletive deletives. Pelle still got the drone footage though – transmitted to the control panel before it went over the side. He didn’t cry much. What a man! And his porridge each morning was second to none, (other than the ceviche and tuna carpaccio we ate each day). The crew was fine. Tomaz, Dasha, Rita and Pelle – and especially the kids, took all the kind Atlantic had to offer with glee. In 30 knot winds, the three kids and I put on a little birthday cabaret for Dasa. We rehearsed for days to present the Unicorn song – complete with Little Fish (Tara), and her toilet roll horn, and Marc waving his arms in unison with whatever moved. I take my hat off to these people taking their four small children over the Atlantic. I learned a lot from the unflappable Tomaz; strong as a bull and a competent sailor, navigator and technician who knew his boat inside out; and a gentle loving family man. And Dasha; breast feeding in between managing the business when Iridium connection permitted. When I left them in Granada, they were waiting on their Covid results still quarantined on the boat. Little Marc waved me goodbye with a confused look. The kids are used to making friends then saying goodbye but Dasha tells me sometimes they find it hard. I found it hard.

What I didn’t write in my logbook, was what I could not have known in Grenada that morning. If I thought the COVID intrigues were over I was wrong! Congratulating myself that I was able to board the 10-seater Winward Islands codeshare charter with Lufthansa from Grenada to Barbados without a COVID paper, I was to be the only passenger and decided not to strap myself in so that I could take photos of the ocean I had just crossed. This was nearly my undoing. Fifteen minutes out of Barbados, I got up to use the toilet when the twin turbo prop aircraft hit an air pocket and dived for what felt like was half a minute. I hit the roof and ended up sprawled across the seat behind me, shattering the plastic arm rest which gouged my middle and lower back with wounds that bled like the Fish River Canyon – all over my only clean white shirt I had saved for coming home. The aircrew were marvelously empathetic with a good sense of humor. The Captain remarked, “You survived the Atlantic to fall at the last hurdle!” I was met by an ambulance and EMT team who cleaned and dressed my wounds, but not before an officious Health and Immigration woman in a white shirt much cleaner than mine, told me my COVID receipt from Grenada was not proof of a negative result and that I needed to have a new PCR and be quarantined. “What? There goes my Xmas pudding,” I thought. My protests were not heard and my Satphone calls to Dr Charles unanswered. What she had neglected to explain that I would still make my Lufthansa connection after a PCR test and isolation from other passengers. Didn’t make any sense! I made my Lufthansa flight but never got my PCR result. Ahh, all’s well that ends swell. This was not kids’ stuff albeit we had four beautiful children on this crossing.

ABOVE

(left) The last shot from Pelle’s drone before it crashed; (right) Tara the unicorn

BELOW

Mum and Dad Dasha and Tomaz with permanent crew: Luna, Tara, Eva and Marc